The Children of Light, as they call themselves, sell produce, crafts, handmade soap, wool, and other things through legitimate channels. Certain O’Rourke funds flow through their agricultural books and emerge squeaky clean on the other side. It’s a win-win.
My father brokered the original deal, and now I maintain and manage it. Which means quarterly visits to review financials, ensure compliance, and shake the hand of a guy whose touch makes me—a man who frequently brushes shoulders with the worst of this city’s criminal underground—want to scrub my skin raw.
The gate is open when I arrive. A young man in what looks like homespun pants and a collarless shirt pulls it wide without meeting my eyes. They never meet my eyes, the men here. The women don’t look up at all.
I park near the chapel—the largest building. It’s a modest, one-story whitewashed structure with a cluster of other structures surrounding it. Everything is functional. Nothing is decorative. There is no color anywhere except the washed-out gray-brown of wood that’s endured too many Chicago winters.
The compound smells the way it always smells—manure, wood smoke, lye soap. I breathe through my mouth and straighten my tie.
The man I’m meeting waits on the chapel steps, his silver hair swept back from his broad forehead. His face might have been handsome once, but now in his sixties, it’s mapped with deep lines, a harsh mouth, and droopy, watery eyes.
His “flock” all call himFather. I doubt they know his real name is Clive Buford and that he’s got a string of past criminal convictions. Or that before he became their spiritual guru, Buford was a straight-up con man.
He wears the same thing every time I see him—a plain white shirt, dark trousers, and a leather belt. They are simple garments for a self-centered egotist—I mean, man of God—who happens to control every aspect of two hundred-plus people’s lives.
“Mr. O’Rourke.” His voice is a murmur. He never raises it, always projecting an appearance of holy serenity. It’s an act. “Welcome. We are blessed by your visit.”
“Buford.” I extend my hand. His grip is dry and firm. “Shall we get started?”
He leads me to his office in the building adjacent to the chapel. Spartan doesn’t cover it—a desk, two chairs, a shelf of ledgers, and a framed piece of scripture on the wall. There is no computer, no phone. The financials are kept by hand in bound leather books, which is both a security feature and a massive pain in my ass.
Buford produces a ledger and slides it across the desk.
For thirty minutes, we work through the numbers. Agricultural revenue tracks with projections. The wool operation expanded by twelve percent this quarter. The produce co-op added two new regional buyers. On paper, everything is clean, profitable, and unremarkable.
Buford answers my questions with a measured calm. Every response is precise, every figure accounted for. He’s brilliant with money—I’ll grant him that.
“I believe that concludes our business.” I close the folder and stand. The chair scrapes against the plank floor. I’m already thinking about the drive back, about the bottle of Jameson inmy desk drawer, and about the distance between this place and any fucking where else.
He gets up to walk me toward the door when movement catches in my peripheral vision through the window to my left.
Two men—large, burly bouncer-looking men—cross the yard dragging a young woman between them. They each hold one of her arms, pulling her faster than she can walk. Her bare feet leave grooves in the dirt as they haul her forward. She wears a shapeless dress in faded gray. Her hair is dark brown, long, half-fallen from whatever pins once held it.
She’s crying silently. Tears cut tracks through the dust on her face.
I stop. I don’t know why. It’s none of my business, but I freeze to the spot.
They’re dragging her toward a wooden post driven into the ground at the edge of the clearing, where a small crowd is gathering.
I think I know what the post is. I have a very good idea, anyway. None of my business. I should ignore it. Look the other way. I don’t.
“What the fuck’s going on?”
“Mr. O’Rourke.” Buford’s voice is pitched to soothe. “Our ways may seem harsh to those unfamiliar with them, but they are essential to the spiritual health of our community. I’m sure you understand.”
I try to accept this. I try to compartmentalize, the way I compartmentalize everything in this life. I’m good at boxes. I keep my world in neat little boxes—the violence, the business, the public image, and the man underneath.
I should just get in my car and leave. I don’t give a shit how a bunch of religious zealots deal with their issues. I barely have the devotion to drag myself to Mass on Sundays.
Yeah, I’m just gonna mind my own damn business.
Except then the girl lifts her head.
Her eyes sweep the yard in wild desperation, and for a half-second, they connect with mine.
They’re brown—deep brown and filled with despair.
She’s young. Twenty at most. Her face is all delicate angles—high cheekbones, tear-stained cheeks, a full mouth pressed tight with a particular stubbornness. Her body is slender, but I see lean muscle in her arms, the kind built by hard physical labor.
